


A familiar face

by oscarwildeboytoy



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscarwildeboytoy/pseuds/oscarwildeboytoy
Summary: An old woman awaits the embrace of death and is welcomed by a familiar face. [This is an original short story]





	A familiar face

The streets glow with the after effect of an evening rain. And the smell of smoke from a cities worth of chimneys permeates the moonlit fog. 

A boy. No, not a boy now, a man. A man walks the cobblestone streets with black tipped shoes that tap in a steady rhythm as he walks. His black coat sits loosely on his broad yet lithe shoulders. His gait is even, calm. He seems unbothered by the filth that runs through the gutters here. He walks. 

A woman lays in her bed, the cold caresses her skin in a way that is almost comforting now. Her old joints greet the icy air like a bittersweet friend. She watches the fog dance across the thick warped glass of her bedroom window. She waits. 

The man walks past a dog whose fur is caked with dirt, he nods and the dog stares, oddly calm. A homless man glances at the shadow of a top hat with familiar unease. And all the while the man walks. His shoes tapping on the stones. The puddles are calm where he passes. 

The woman reminisces on a day, that in its entirety was quite mundane. A crowded market, greetings from both strangers and acquaintances, errands, chores, and sewing needles. Her hands are oh so familiar with the steady in and out of a sewing needle. Yet, she feels a familiarity in the air tonight. A feeling that someone is at long last coming home. 

He stands at the door. His hands are covered in leather gloves that glisten slightly as he reaches for the handle. The old warped door makes no sound as he enters. He stares at the small home, nothing more than a shack made familiar with items of significance. And yet his heart warms in a way that he has not felt for a very long time. He starts up the staircase made of old bent wood so worn now its a wonder someone doesn’t fall though. But not him, he will not fall. The dust does not even stir in his presence. 

She feels him enter even though she can not hear or see him. The smell of charcoal and smoke fills her nose, followed by a more familiar one. Brown sugar and wool. The smell of holidays and childhood. Roasting goose and warm potatoes. She hears the laughter as if from a memory of a boy, barely 15, who thought he could fight a war. Who thought he could survive a war. 

He watches, he stares for a moment. His calm almost breaking at the sight of the woman. She is older now, with a sadness hidden in the bags under her eyes. Her youth stolen with his last goodbye uttered through tears and a soldiers uniform. His mother waits. And he walks. 

She cries tears of joy as she finally sees him. Her boy standing there like a man. Dressed in a suit fit for a count or a nobleman not at all at place in her home. She sits up and he smiles. She feels her heart warm even as it stops. The room is still, and now two walk down the street. Hand in hand. A young woman with green eyes and wild brown hair, and a man. No, not a man, a boy. A boy, who has come to take his mother home. 

The End


End file.
